


Catharsis

by todisturbtheuniverse



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Dragon Age Holiday Cheer, F/M, First Day, Fluff, Gen, Ghost of Arishok Past, Hurt/Comfort, Starkhaven is for Lovers, The Arrowhead, Thedas Holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 07:23:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian conspires to rope Hawke into community service on First Day. He gets a little more than he bargained for. Written for <a href="http://dragonageholidaycheer.tumblr.com/">Dragon Age Holiday Cheer 2013</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catharsis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tinyfierce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyfierce/gifts).



> Takes place roughly between [The Arrowhead](277720) and [Starkhaven is for Lovers](316829), [tinyfierce](http://tinyfierce.tumblr.com/)'s current saga about her Hawke. Pre-Hawke/Sebastian-ish, but mostly friendship, because friendssssss. Also, mentions of prior Hawke/Arishok.
> 
> I embarked to write a gift fic for [tinyfierce](http://tmblr.co/mBbX3AwqsbQ5tm0b8wGVK4g), and got so caught up in her Hawke—Mairead of the red hair and lyrium daggers—that I ended up reading the entirety of _The Arrowhead_ and _Starkhaven is for Lovers_ just to have enough context to do a story about this lovingly-crafted character justice. (I loved both of those fics so much—a surprise, for me, since the first features a pairing I'd never thought of, and the second features a character I wasn't sold on until a few weeks ago. But now I'm heartily sold on all those things. Figures!)
> 
> I still would call it more of an homage to her Hawke than an actual story _about_ her Hawke, mostly because I don't have the jurisdiction, but I hope she enjoys it anyway. (:
> 
> There was a scene in _The Arrowhead_ that I really, really loved (it's at this link [here](277720/chapters/495140)) because it reminded me of the Thai string-tying ceremony—a tradition that my partner's mother brought back from Thailand after her time in the Peace Corps. I've only participated in one, but it was overwhelming and emotional and really wonderful, and I wanted to bring that kind of feeling to this ficlet.

**i.**

"Maker help me."

He muttered the words compulsively, knee-jerk, because to do anything else was impossible. Hawke provoked that kind of response, especially with blood smeared over one cheekbone, her wild red hair tangled, and half a sleeve of her armor ripped clean away. Despite all this superficial damage, she held herself rigidly upright, shoulders squared, chin up, blue-gray eyes sweeping the soft gloom of the Chantry with determination.

"You'd best get her attention, Sebastian." The Grand Cleric had come to stand beside him at the upper rail, peering down into the cavernous space where Hawke stood. "Undoubtedly, she is here for you."

"To what purpose," Sebastian replied, shaking his head, "I can only imagine."

Elthina's nose wrinkled up—just slightly, as though she knew what she thought of that—and without further consultation, she vanished into the archives room, her slippers whisper-soft on the stone floor.

Sebastian, meanwhile, had been spotted; Hawke was mounting the stairs with the ease of a woman who _hadn't_ just been in battle, though she clearly had. A couple Chantry sisters tittered as she strode past. They didn't dare say a real word against the Champion of Kirkwall, but general noises of distress at her mangled hair and clotting injuries were allowed. To her credit, Hawke ignored them, but that put a bad feeling in his stomach right off. Hawke was usually all too delighted to mock the sisters right back.

Her tight smile didn't inspire much confidence, either. "Can I have a word?" she said in greeting, propping her fist on her hip. It was only then that he knew the extent of her injuries. Usually, she would carry out this gesture with her dominant arm, but now it was held stiffly at her side, torn armor dangling uselessly from her forearm.

"Aye, if you allow me to help you with that," he agreed, nodding to the wound. She looked otherwise unharmed.

She made a face—not far off from Elthina's recent nose-wrinkle, though Sebastian would never convey that information unless he wanted a brilliant black eye—and sighed. He took this as her assent, laid a hand briefly on her shoulder in reassurance, and led the way to the opposite side of the Chantry, where a merry fire burned. She draped herself into the armchair there. An expression of deep relief quickly followed the brief flash of pain on her features. With an air of curiosity, she peeled the sleeve of the armor back just a bit, laying her forearm completely bare. Sebastian smacked her hand away—lightly, but firmly.

"Aveline will have you for this," he said, teasing. "Third time this year that armor'll have to be refitted."

She made another face—this time dismissive. "Aveline knows better than I that armor's there to _arm_ , not look pretty," she retorted. "If she rents her hair over this, it's because everyone _else_ doesn't understand." She shifted, settling a little deeper into the armor. With a sigh, she turned her face up to the cool, clear winter light. It was only just after dawn, and the peculiar glow caught in her eyes, giving them the appearance of particularly transparent water.

She didn't flinch or wince or speak at all while he cleaned the wound. He didn't bother to ask how she'd gotten it. Judging by the shadows beneath her eyes, it had been another long night of killing thugs. She had been tackling the resurgence of gangs in Lowtown for some weeks, now, and still hadn't found the source. Her arm didn't twitch at all beneath his ministrations—a warm, wet cloth to strip away the gore, a careful inspection to decide on the necessity of stitches.

"You could have gone to Anders," he suggested mildly.

She turned her face resolutely away as he threaded a needle. "Anders," she replied, with the barest hint of a smile, "doesn't titter so amusingly when I turn up bloody and beaten on his doorstep. Your Chantry sisters are worth their weight in gold for entertainment."

At last, her eyes gave a little blink at the prick of a needle threading through her skin. She let him work, staying quiet. The sun rose higher, spilling pale yellow light through the high windows of the Chantry.

He had only just remembered that she'd had something to say when she finally said it.

"Sometimes," she said idly, flippantly, a jest with a bitter edge to it, "I wonder if _Champion_ is just a placeholder for _kills all the people we don't have the time to_." She paused, considering. "Perhaps it was too long. Champion has a better ring to it."

"Hawke," he said gently, pausing in the stitching, and looked up at the taut lines of her features.

She waved off his concern with her uninjured arm. "It's nothing," she sighed, deflating like sails with the wind gone out of them, and stared moodily at the fire while Sebastian went on stitching her up with quick, nimble fingers. The blood flow was smothered, squeezing up in little thwarted beads between stitches. When he tied off the last one, Hawke turned her wrist experimentally.

"No," Sebastian warned, dipping his hands into a fresh basin of warm water. Her blood unraveled from his fingers in liquid ribbons. "You won't be able to fight with that arm for a few days, at least."

"The gangs of this damned city are not going to leave me alone just because I needed stitches," she shot back. At his pointedly raised eyebrow, she let out a little huff of laughter. In the distance, the same pair of sisters tittered. Hawke's voice had been loud enough to reach them. "Sorry," she sighed, a rueful smile quickly twisting her lips.

He eyed her thoughtfully, shaking the water from his hands. He got up to spread them before the fire, letting the last of the moisture steam away. She propped her chin on her uninjured hand. Her well-known stealth armor was still strapped down tight, hiding the three clawed scars there. With a yawn, her eyes went to half-mast while he considered her. She was drowsing where she sat.

"I think we could find an occupation to keep you sufficiently entertained until you heal," he said slowly, approaching the idea as cautiously as he dared. Hesitate too much, and Hawke would awaken, stretching like a mabari with muscles bunched to lunge.

Her gaze had sharpened, but only moderately. "Such as?" she prompted drowsily.

"You're forever wondering why the Chantry doesn't open services for the less fortunate," he said mildly. "I've been organizing an event, of sorts. A meal on First Day. Free. In Lowtown."

Hawke's spine straightened up a bit at that. "You're trying to rope me into your _chores_ ," she accused, her words slurring just slightly even as her brows drew together.

"I am trying," he chuckled, "to keep you off the street for a few nights." _And give you something else for your mind to worry at on First Day_ , he thought, though he didn't dare say it aloud, _than all you've lost over the last year_. "The event would benefit from the Champion's presence," he wheedled. "You wondered yourself, not five moments ago, if you would ever do any good besides your work with your blades."

"Now, hold on," she protested, eyes narrowing. "I said no such—"

He raised his hands, palms out in surrender. "You seemed dissatisfied with what being Champion has meant for you thus far. Did I misinterpret you?"

Scowling, she slouched down a little further in the armchair. "No," she replied sullenly.

He fought the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the one that threatened to become a full-blown grin. "No," he agreed gently. "You could do some boring good for once, Hawke. Feed orphans. Put the blades down for a few days. _Rest_ ," he emphasized, just slightly.

Her eyes gave him a baleful glare, but the look around her downturned mouth was defeated. "All right," she grumbled irritably. "Fine. I'll do your precious _community service_ , Sebastian, but after that I'm back to my usual woefully wicked ways." She waggled her fingers at him, the lopsided smirk made a little impotent by the fact that her cheek was now smooshed against the high-backed armchair.

"I would expect nothing else," he said somberly.

She sighed again, heavily enough to blow a nearby stack of parchment askew, and closed her eyes. Within seconds, she was asleep, her breathing soft and even. He tread carefully from the fire, moving her just enough to give her comfort: evicting her hand from where it was trapped beneath her chin, laying out the freshly mended arm where she wouldn't give it further cause for pain. After all that, she still looked cold and small, dwarfed by the empty spaces of the Chantry, so he fetched a blanket from the nearby supply cupboard and covered her with it.

On impulse, he threaded fingers through the hopelessly tangled hair at her neck and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "Sleep well, Hawke," he murmured.

Moving as though drugged, she got her good arm free of the blanket far enough to sleepily pinch his nose. "Go away," she invited, pressing her cheek a bit more firmly into the upholstery of the armchair.

Smiling, he took his leave.

**ii.**

Hawke had stunning success at charming people.

His little First Day event was about to become more of a First Day _festival_ , if she had anything to say about it; that much was quite clear. She wandered from market stall to market stall, chatting, laughing infectiously, greeting the shy children that hid behind their parents' legs. They all recognized her, because they, after all, had known her first: before she donned that trademark red-and-black armor, before she lived in a massive, empty estate, before she had free reign over an entire city. These were her people, and they leaned against their tables to chatter back at her, cheerful and easy.

She wasn't the Champion today. She was just Hawke, thick red hair drawn over one shoulder, plainly dressed: a forest green tunic belted at her waist (loose enough to conceal the daggers and knives hidden on her person), a long-sleeved gray shirt beneath it, dark brown trousers fit tight to her legs, boots securely fastened. No armor to speak of—only she could feel safe in Lowtown, at least during daylight hours, and hers was off being repaired, anyway. Occasionally, she spared an amused glance for Sebastian and Varric, perched on crates just outside The Hanged Man with bow and crossbow held idly in their laps. Clearly, she found their precaution laughable.

It was, in a way, Sebastian admitted. If there was a fight, she would, of course, join in—ripped stitches or no. If he was quick enough, though, he would neutralize any threat before she could tear open her healing skin. She would sigh and return her daggers, reluctantly, to her belt—lyrium still dormant, blades still clean.

"Is the Chantry really going to pay for all this, Choir Boy?" Varric said, an idle musing rather than a direct question, the toe of one boot twitching along to the stumbling song echoing from within The Hanged Man.

"Hawke has persuaded some of the Hightown merchants and nobility to donate," Sebastian replied, eyes still on Hawke. She had a child braced on her hip now—not yet even five, by the looks of it—and was playing a one-handed game of peekaboo with the little girl, who giggled continuously and tugged at Hawke's curls. He smiled at the sight. "The Chantry's coffers can make up the difference," he added belatedly.

Varric snickered. "Persuaded? Or threatened?"

"Perhaps a little of both," Sebastian allowed. "There was a dress involved, but she did not leave the daggers at home."

Varric smirked—it had the glint of pride to it—and watched as Hawke put the little girl down and twirled her around before she scampered back to the trinketsmonger. The redheaded woman smiled at Hawke, who bowed with a flourish back, and strode around the corner to talk to the tailor. Sebastian and Varric rose—casually enough, both of them strapping their weapons down to their backs again—and followed at a distance, keeping a close eye on her.

Usually, Lowtown would be lucky to huddle together in the markets, clutching a single glass of something amidst their tattered and worn decorations on First Day with a cold breeze cutting through them—all the while hearing the echo of overwrought festivities in Hightown. Sebastian had wanted to give them something better than that, a spark of warmth in the winter chill, but Hawke was breathing another miracle entirely to life right before his eyes.

It warmed his heart with a ferocity strong enough to choke him. He cleared his throat, hoping that it would clear his head, too. Hawke had a good heart, and she didn't get the opportunity to show it nearly enough. It was a beautiful sight to see now.

"This was a good idea, kid," Varric said, reluctant but genuine, as Hawke laughed again and held up a belt from the tailor's stall for her inspection. She ran nimble fingers over the leather, complimenting the severe middle-aged man, whose features softened minutely at her words. "She seems happy."

 _Like she hasn't in months_ , Sebastian heard, though Varric didn't say it.

"She does," he agreed.

"I bet I could get Corff to contribute," Varric mused, leaning back against a grimy wall. "And that Hightown kid, who's always hanging around the bar—he'd cough up."

Sebastian turned on the pretense of surveying the alley behind them to hide the smile creeping up on his features. "That's very kind of you, Varric," he said, working to keep his tone smooth.

Varric grumbled and shifted his crossbow. "Watch it, Choir Boy," he warned, but there was no real heat in it. Sebastian, keeping his grin to a lopsided smile, went back to watching Hawke.

**iii.**

Hawke pressed an uninjured fist into the small of her back, grimaced, and arched into the pressure. A long morning of carrying boxes had left her with weird aches all over. But it's worth it, she thought, surveying the Lowtown market—transformed overnight from drab to utterly festive, tents and ribbons and colors bursting everywhere. She smiled at the sight. Even set against the backdrop of low-hanging gray clouds and smoke belching from the foundry district, the impending festival brought a bloom of life to the dirt alleys of Lowtown.

Sebastian set down a crate just beside hers. "That's the last of it," he said, straightening up with a grimace not unlike her own. "How are your stitches?"

" _Fine_ ," she insisted, sticking her arm out in his direction. With her sleeves rolled up, it was clear that the stitches were still intact, her skin healing up just fine. "Stop badgering me."

He smiled. "Now, if I didn't check, and you accidentally ripped them, you'd be off the streets that much longer. It seems that I'm doing you a favor, from that angle."

"Stuff your angles," she muttered, and stuck her tongue out for good measure.

He chuckled, warm and unoffended, and gestured to the pathway that led into the market district past The Hanged Man. Lowtown and Darktown residents alike were already trickling in, eyes wide and half-suspicious, distinguishable only because those from Lowtown might have a bit of clothing that wasn't ripped or nearly threadbare.

Her throat constricted suddenly. She had been these people, not so many years ago. While she had moved on, they had remained trapped, ground beneath the heel of people above them—people like her. Not everyone could just wander off and make a fortune in the Deep Roads and win a title that rang hollow. It seemed silly to complain about her lot—killing thugs, wandering an empty mansion—when others didn't even have the resources for such an existential crisis.

She shook her head, running fingers through her hair to get it off her face, and tried to shake off that line of thought as easily. These sudden bouts of brooding and melancholy were getting fewer, and farther between—but that only meant that every time one arrived, it knocked the air right from her lungs. It went out of her the same as it had in that arena, all those months ago, feet scrabbling for purchase on dirt, falling as soon as she was airborne—

 _Guess that answers that, then_ , she thought, with an effort at humor, even if it was only internal. _I was never meant to fly after all, dragon lady_.

Sebastian was giving her a peculiar look, so she forced a smile and hoped it look genuine. Before she could open her mouth for a hopefully witty comment, though, he rested a hand on her shoulder, a warm, heavy weight. She took an even breath, and tried not to look as if she was drowning.

"You needn't do that for my sake," he offered.

"No platitudes?" she asked, her voice too brittle, and leaned into the pressure of his fingers, too minutely for him to notice—and if he did, he wouldn't tell.

" _I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade_ ," he said, the smallest smile tipping up one corner of his mouth. " _For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's light, and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost_ _._ "

She drew another breath, one that only pretended to be smooth—convincingly, she thought, if only he couldn't feel her shoulder hitch beneath his fingers—and they stood there another moment, watching the market slowly come to life. There were disbelieving and hopeful looks on those faces now, smiles like guttering candles, the scent of cooking meat and baking bread going up from swiftly modified stalls. She breathed it in until her sinuses stopped burning and the memory of that day faded far away. She could already feel the roaring revelry of Hightown at her back; if she looked over her shoulder, she might see a glimpse of that color.

She wouldn't, though. Not today.

"There's one other thing," she said slowly, testing the words as they came out. She wondered if she could go through with it. "It's simple, but…"

Sebastian squeezed her shoulder once more and let her go. "I'll leave you to it," he invited, and strode off into the growing crowd. Without his typical armor—for he was without, today, in a gesture of goodwill toward Lowtown; only his bow strung across his back over plainclothes—she soon lost sight of him. She hesitated only a moment more, and then made off in the opposite direction.

She would need a lot of paper.

**iv.**

She counted the vials of gaatlok. It wasn't much—there wasn't much she was willing to spare, after all, from the stash that had gone untouched for a year now—but it would be enough for a few colorful blazes, something to make mouths drop open and children squeal with delight. Accompanied by a few vials of chalk, it ought to do the trick.

The festival was in full swing by the time she returned to the market. It was nearly twilight. The days were short, this time of year, and she'd pulled on a cloak on her way out of the estate to keep off the chill. Shirt, tunic, trousers and boots just weren't enough. Not for the first time in the last several days, Hawke longed for her armor, the seams and stitches that wouldn't be returned to her until the morrow at earliest. The fabric always seemed warm, perhaps because she was always sweating her ass off in it, but it was better than this brisk breeze, trying its hardest to get in under her cloak and clothes. Clothes that weren't skintight were clothes that encouraged drafts, and she didn't appreciate it much.

She wondered how in Thedas she would get everyone's attention without shouting herself hoarse. The crowd was massive now, thick with people, and everyone had a drink or a bite to eat in their hands, and most were laughing and swapping words with their neighbors. The children ran through legs, all around the market, trailing ribbons and streamers behind them, and Hawke couldn't help a smile. The few lanterns, cleverly spaced, gave the whole place a carnival feel, casting dim light on the bright colors hoisted in the market even as the sunlight faded.

She picked out her people, the few that were visible: Anders, giving a small boy a ride on his shoulders, the child squealing all the while; Merrill, weaving flowers through a little girl's hair; Fenris, safely monitoring the festivities from the shadow of an alleyway, sword and armor at his disposal as ever; Varric, telling a story to the gathered listeners with Aveline casting finger-shadows on the wall behind him; Sebastian, an apron tied over his clothes, handing out pies with careful hands. She smiled to see them all, her ragtag gang of freaks, out in the open air with new life breathed into them, and turned back to her task.

Before she could consider finding something to stand on, though, the wall of noise began to fall back. Slowly at first, and then quickly, conversations died out. The people gathered in the market looked up at her expectantly, smiles still bright on their faces.

"Well," she said, when the hush was finished falling. "This seems like a lovely party."

Those who clutched tankards lifted them into the air with chuckles, toasting her. She waved them off and let them drink deep before she went on.

"I have something of a tradition I want to share with all of you." She nudged the crate beside her with her foot. "Spaced around the market, there are a bunch of crates full of these." She leaned down to pluck out a bracelet made of paper, holding it up for the crowd to see. "First Day," she went on, "is about remembering that we're still alive."

"Hear, hear!" someone shouted, and a cheer of agreement went up.

"It's about remembering that we still have something to our names, despite the hardships," she continued. "Easy for me to say, I know. I have a roof over my head. A high-end roof, no less, with proper insulation from the cold." She shivered theatrically, and the crowd rumbled with mirth. "But I used to live in a shack in Lowtown, and I felt warmer there than I do now. It's the people who keep us warm." She tempered the sobriety of the statement with a wink, and they laughed, right on cue.

"So these will go on the wrists of your loved ones—your family, your friends, your neighbors. There's enough to write with for everyone, but if you can't write, tell them. Tell them what they mean to you. Why they're important. How your life is better for them. Tell them what you see. Get to it," she said amiably, and they funneled away toward the crates to pick up bunches of paper.

She took a bundle herself. It would make her borderline weepy to do this, she thought, but she would grit her teeth.

They picked her out in the crowd to tie paper around her wrist and give her words. There was no foreign tongue to decode this time, only the language she'd been speaking from birth with dozens of accents changing the sound. _Lovable scamp_ , Lady Elegant wrote. _Vital supplier_ , Tomwise said, with a rare grin. _Protector_ , the tailor scrawled, and clasped her hand for a long moment before he walked away.

There were a lot of these. They never wrote _Champion_ , as though by mutual agreement of some hive mind she wasn't party to. _Defender. Guardian. Shield. Hero_ _._ The last was scrawled, slow and lovingly, by a little girl with flowers in her hair. She took off running, blushing furiously, as soon as she was done, leaving a smear after the "o" that traced down the inside of Hawke's wrist.

Her friends had different ways of showing their affection—and she for them. _Big mouth_ , she wrote, in obvious block letters, on the paper for Varric's wrist. _Hurricane_ , he wrote back, and smirked when she pouted at him. _Teacher_ , Fenris wrote, so carefully, with an anxiously knitted brow and worried eyes, and _friend_ , she gave him, writing clearly so that he might read it.

 _Just_ , she wrote for Aveline, _fierce_ for Merrill, _healer_ for Anders; they gave her _accidental do-gooder_ , _strong_ , and _impulsive_ , with smirks and earnest eyes spread among them. She wandered through the crowd gathering slips of paper like gauntlets, until they encased her up to the elbows, until they were strung through her belt, until there was nowhere else to put them. There was a tight, happy-melancholy feeling in her chest, one that kept threatening to squeeze the breath out of her with every brush of someone's fingers, and she wondered if this was how the Arishok had felt behind those impassive features as his people covered him with paper and honorifics.

She had a hard time keeping her eyes dry, but she was doing it, by Andraste. Her smile felt like it might split her face in two at any moment, but she was doing just fine.

A hand caught around her wrist. She turned, and her smile bloomed just a bit further. Everyone looked a little ridiculous with all this paper strapped to them, and Sebastian was no exception; he gave a rueful grin as he shook one arm, rattling the bracelets there. He fastened the paper held between his fingers around her wrist, then turned it up, so that she might read it.

_Purpose._

"I was lost when you met me, Hawke," he explained, his voice firm and gentle all at once. "I won't pretend that I've found my way yet, but I feel closer to my rightful path when I'm with you."

He smiled, a little quirk of his lips, and squeezed her hand before letting go.

She cleared her throat, but her voice still came out husky when she finally got it past her lips. _Solace_ , she had written on the slip of paper that she tied around his wrist, and she felt a little peculiar about it, now—a little disarmed when she looked up into his blue, blue eyes.

"You always know what to say," she said softly, almost too quietly to be heard above the joyous din. He leaned a little closer, turning his ear toward her voice. "I don't always believe you, mind," she added, trying in vain to be a little cross. "But it turns out, usually, that you know what you're doing. This was good for me. Thank you."

On impulse, she leaned up and brushed a kiss to his cheek, throwing her arms around him for a quick hug. She expected to be gone before he could reciprocate—for him to be too embarrassed to return the gesture, because _Maker_ , she could feel the heat of his blush—but to her surprise, he caught her around the waist before she could pull away, squeezing tight for a moment and then letting go. His lips quirked in that smile again, and then he faded back into the crowd, leaving her feeling more peculiar still—but it was a warm kind of peculiar, comfortable and cared-for, so she didn't examine it much more deeply than that.

The crowd was dying down, now, clutching warm mugs of cider and chatting quietly as the last of the slips of paper were passed around and tied down. She cleared her throat again and went to find the little girl who'd written _hero_ on her arm, picking up a few more young volunteers along the way. With her ducklings in tow, she made her way up the first flight of steps leading to Hightown, toward the shallow bowls perched there.

It wouldn't be much like the display she'd once seen in the qunari compound. There wasn't enough gaatlok, or enough colored chalk, for everyone to burn up their papers in an explosion of color. But the few sparks that burst against the night sky would be beautiful enough, short-lived as they were. She helped the first girl coat her rustling papers in bright blue chalk, then tossed them into the basin burning with flames and pulled the rest of the children back. Gasps of delight and wonder broke out in the market as, far above, a blue pinwheel burst out and dripped down, glittering.

She let the rest of the children have their turn, and then shed the bulk of her own papers for one last, large explosion. She kept a few, letting them slide to cling safely to her wrist. _Hurricane, teacher, accidental do-gooder, strong, impulsive, purpose_ _._ The Arishok would not have approved, she thought, of the break from tradition—but she didn't mind that so much, right now. He was long gone, and this was an old tradition made new, made different. There was something cathartic about that, something that pulled the tension from her chest—a feeling she'd long since grown used to, and didn't notice until the burden lessened.

She chose red. The color was hers, after all, as much as it had been his. She threw the powder and paper to the flames and it blazed up, popped and screamed, as it shot into the air and burst.

If her eyes were finally wet, it was too dark for anyone to tell.

**v.**

They drank until late in the night, as the market slowly cleared out and the cold cut too deeply to remain outdoors. The Hanged Man and its guttering fire became a shelter for Hawke and her group—with Merrill, passed out on crossed arms on their table; Aveline, Donnic, Varric, and Fenris playing round after round of Wicked Grace, Aveline growing steadily more red in the face as she lost hand after hand; Anders, nursing a single drink and watching the game with something like amusement in his worn features. Sebastian held a cup of something containing no alcohol, according to Corff's dubious reassurances, but every time he took a sip, he thought it might as well have. It was rank stuff, indeed.

The papers rattled on their wrists with every movement, but no one seemed willing to take them off. It filled the bar with a happy kind of rustling chatter, rising cheerfully above the dirty floors and poisonous drinks. Hawke sipped hers with a happy sigh, her shoulder pressed companionably to Sebastian's. Her red hair was a wild, curly mass after a day of being tugged on by the wind, but the lines in her brow had softened, smoothed out, and her smile was brighter, less brittle, than it had been in a year.

Sebastian clinked his glass gently against hers, and allowed himself a moment of pride for a job well done.


End file.
